


the blood of the lamb

by star_sky_earth



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Creampie, Cults, F/M, Feet Washing, Incest, Loss of Virginity, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/star_sky_earth/pseuds/star_sky_earth
Summary: Bellamy should have known better. All these years, he’s thought that Octavia believed, as he did. Thought - hoped - that joining the Brethren at such a young age had curbed her sinful nature, tamed the wilful, obstinate personality that is his clearest memory from their life before. As a toddler, she used to throw tantrums, terrible screaming fits that had gotten them thrown out of more than one store, driven Aurora past her wit’s end. She’d hold her breath until she turned blue, willing to do anything to get her own way. He sees now that the girl in front of him has not changed. Her piety, her gentle demeanor, her modesty - all just an act, an empty show of faith to hide the poison-fanged snake that dwells within her chest, coiling ever tighter around her corrupted heart.All this time, she has only been holding her breath.“I know you feel it,” Octavia says, taking a step towards Bellamy that he should not allow her to take. “The pull between us. The bond.”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Octavia Blake
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	the blood of the lamb

Bellamy is praying when he hears it. 

A knock at his door, so quiet that he could almost pretend that he imagined it, nothing more than an illusion caused by the windy night outside, the violent swaying of the trees surrounding the cabin, their branches clattering against the thin metal roof. Ignoring both the sound and the feeling of panic that it inspires, he redoubles his efforts at prayer, staring unblinking at the lit candle in front of him until he sees it even when he closes his eyes, a bright yellow light seared onto the backs of his eyelids. 

He imagines taking the light into himself. Imagines the sharp sting of the flame on his tongue, closing his mouth around it and swallowing, the dull aching heat of it passing into his throat, rounding the curve of his oesophagus. Finally settling in the pit of his belly, there to light a blazing fire that floods all the hidden corners of his soul, a purifying light that suffuses his entire body and burns away all lingering traces of the darkness that he knows he holds within him. 

Perhaps then, he thinks, he might at last be free. 

It’s late, well past curfew, and night has long since reclaimed the earth, the heavy weight of darkness pressing down all around him so that even the air feels thick in his lungs, coating his insides like black tar. The lone candle flickers, sending shadows leaping frantically across the walls, and he holds his breath until it settles, not daring to move. Bellamy knows all too well the dangers of these lonely hours, when all the deepest desires of the human heart run close to the surface, restlessly prowling demons with snapping jaws and razor edged feathers, the will to resist them wearing thin. It is in these hours, when darkness reigns and dawn feels like it will never come, that it becomes even more necessary to draw the word of the Lord closely around you, a cloak of protection that never fails. 

"And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness could not overcome it," he whispers, ignoring the pounding of his treacherous heart. 

Tomorrow is an important day. A holy day, stars and planets moving into a precise configuration long ago predicted by Cadogan, an auspicious sign of the Lord’s favour upon them, His pleasure in the faithful service of his chosen Brethren. Thirteen couples are to be wed, thirteen sacred pairings revealed to Cadogan by the Lord himself, and Bellamy will stand by Cadogan’s side as he performs the Sealing, assisting with the rite. It is a high honour to be chosen for such a task, an honour almost never bestowed on a mere Covenant Level Six, and Bellamy does not take his duty lightly. Tonight is to be spent in prayer and solitary devotion, so that he may come before the Lord tomorrow with a heart and soul reborn in the healing light of the Word, as pure as any son of Adam could hope to be. 

The knock comes again, interrupting his reverie, so that he jolts and accidentally knocks the table holding the candle, its light wavering dangerously. The knock is louder this time, and touched with an unmistakeable urgency, the harbinger of some frantic soul. Bellamy cannot ignore it, although he closes his eyes briefly so as not to see his hands trembling where he still holds them up in prayer, open palms raised to the Lord in supplication. 

His knees crack loudly as he stands, protesting the sudden movement after so many hours spent kneeling on the bare wooden floor. The ache is familiar, and brings its own kind of comfort. 

The one room cabin is small, easily crossed in two long strides, but Bellamy pauses before he opens the door, laying his forehead against the rough wood. He wonders who would come here so late at night, indulging himself in blissful ignorance for just a moment, pretending that he doesn’t already know exactly. 

Taking a deep breath, steeling himself, he opens the door. And there she is, just as he somehow knew that she would be. 

A girl. Small, slight, barely coming up to the middle of his chest, dressed in the thin white linen dress that all the unmarried girls wear, her dark hair tightly bound in an intricate mass of braids and knots at the nape of her neck. She has no jacket, no shoes, and as he watches she shivers uncontrollably, her slender arms and shoulders bared to the cold night air. Her eyes are wide and dark, unreadable, so that she almost seems part of the night itself; an ethereal creature, knitted together from mist and starlight, touched with shadow. 

He looks around. The Camaels patrol the Garden at night, looking for all those who are not where they should be, equally harsh on Brethren breaking curfew as they are on outsiders seeking to break into the compound. He looks up the slope - past all the other cabins, the dormitories for the children and the singles, the hall where they hold their twice daily services - to Sinai, the big house, where Cadogan and all those over Covenant Level Ten reside, its bright lights standing out in the darkness. Even this far away he can hear the faint strain of music, the sound of men’s voices raised in laughter, and he averts his gaze, cheeks burning. It is not for him to judge his elders.

_Judge not, that ye be not judged._

The wind rises, the trees groaning as they sway and dip like drunken men, and he stands aside to let Octavia in. 

She says nothing, bowing her head as she passes him and goes to stand in the middle of the floor rug, drawing her arms up to wrap them around herself. It’s barely warmer in here than it is outside - only the big house has year-round heating, Cadogan needing the warmth to ease the pain of his old bones - but Bellamy barely feels the cold anymore, well used to it by now. There is a blanket on the bed, dark scratchy wool, but he makes no move to fetch it for her. Bad enough, to have her here. Worse, to encourage it. 

He turns on the bedside lamp. They’re not meant to have lights on after curfew, but it can’t be helped. It’s a weak light, anyway, barely enough to read by. Hopefully the Camaels will think that it’s a candle, should they happen to look in this direction.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, careful to keep his voice low. The walls of the cabin are thin, and sound carries a long way in the mountain air, straight to the ears of whoever cares to listen. “Coming here is…you should not be here.”

“I had to come,” she says. She keeps her eyes fixed on her bare feet where they’re curling round each other for warmth, toes burrowing into the rug. 

“Sister…” he sighs.

“Don’t call me that,” Octavia says quickly, cutting him off. Now she looks up, eyes flashing with anger, and despite himself Bellamy takes a hasty step back, careful to keep a safe distance between them. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and for the first time he notices how thin her dress is, the tight buds of her nipples plainly showing through the fabric. Something stirs and twists in his belly, a sensation like a pair of jaws opening wide.

He clears his throat and spreads his hands before him, face easing into a well-practiced smile, speaking the words he’s heard so often that he barely hears them anymore. The most sacred belief of the Brethren, the foundation stone on which their faith rests, calling them to serve as equal brothers and sisters in a sacred community of the Lord. “ _For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister_ \- ”

“ - _and mother_ ,” she finishes impatiently. “But there is more than that between us. Bellamy, you know that there is.”

He swallows heavily, smile faltering. Even using his name is a startling overfamiliarity, individual names rarely heard in public except for the purposes of direction, and never spoken between a man and woman not Sealed together. They have little need of names here, all signs of pride and self-regard set aside, no relationships recognised but those that are Sealed with the righteous blood of the Covenant. 

_The blood of the Covenant is stronger than the water of the womb._

Bellamy can recall very little of his life before the Brethren. He’d been nine, and Octavia just three, when Aurora brought them to the Garden, having met one of Cadogan’s followers at the mall earlier that week. God had done His work in her quickly - like a field made ready for sowing, cleared and ploughed into neat furrows, her eyes were easily opened to the truth of the Word, eager to set aside a life of disappointment, the debt and drudgery that came with being a single mother to two children under ten. Bellamy still remembers the light in her eyes, the contagious excitement he’d felt as they loaded up all their belongings into her beat-up forest green Toyota and skipped town in the middle of the night, a neatly folded apology note left on the bed of their extended stay motel room in lieu of payment. He’d fallen asleep in the car, and when he woke a few hours later, dawn just creeping over the horizon, they were home. 

He’s glad that he barely remembers his life before. If envy were not a mortal sin, he would envy the children that are born in the Garden. They will never know the stranglehold that sin can have over the human heart, a weed that grows thick and fast without the Word to beat it back, slowly blocking out the light of the Lord until all is left in dust and shadow. They will never have reason to fear the dark corners of their own souls, the seeds that lie in wait there, planted in childhood, a single moment’s carelessness all they need to sprout, and grow. 

Without realising it, his hand closes into a fist, nails fitting neatly into the grooves of long-healed scars.

Aurora had died only a few years after they joined the Brethren, all their prayers and holy oils no match for the pneumonia that took her, a fitting name for the demon that Cadogan told them had dwelt in her lungs. Neither he or Octavia had been there when she died - hadn’t even even known that she was ill, having long since moved out into the dormitories that house all the children and unmarried singles, living under the watchful eyes of the Nursemaids. They’d found out a few days later, summoned to the big house by Cadogan himself so that he could deliver the news personally. It was both their first time in Sinai, and they’d looked around with wide eyes at the high ceilings and plush furnishings, relishing the heat that enveloped them as they crossed the threshold, still shivering in their thin linen clothes. Already they barely knew each other, and they’d circled each other like wary animals as they waited to be called in to Cadogan’s office, an uneasy distance broken only by occasional sidelong glances.

He didn’t feel anything at the news that his moth- that Aurora was dead. The curtains in the main hall were made of a thick red damask material, fringed with gold brocade, and he’d stared at the pattern as Cadogan talked about Paradise, the rumble of his soft voice punctuated by the gentle ticking of the mantlepiece clock. In the chair next to him Octavia had bowed her head, but her eyes were dry and her breathing steady. Cadogan had smiled as he lay his hands on their heads, dismissing them, and Bellamy knew then that there had been some kind of test, and they had both passed. And at last he felt something. Pride. 

Bellamy should have known better. All these years, he’s thought that Octavia believed, as he did. Thought - hoped - that joining the Brethren at such a young age had curbed her sinful nature, tamed the wilful, obstinate personality that is his clearest memory from their life before. As a toddler, she used to throw tantrums, terrible screaming fits that had gotten them thrown out of more than one store, driven Aurora past her wit’s end. She’d hold her breath until she turned blue, willing to do anything to get her own way. He sees now that the girl in front of him has not changed. Her piety, her gentle demeanor, her modesty - all just an act, an empty show of faith to hide the poison-fanged snake that dwells within her chest, coiling ever tighter around her corrupted heart.

All this time, she has only been holding her breath. 

“I know you feel it,” Octavia says, taking a step towards Bellamy that he should not allow her to take. “The pull between us. The bond.”

She is sixteen now. A child, and yet not, or at least not for much longer. Tomorrow she will shed her white linen dress for one of lace and silk, her dormitory sisters weaving a crown of wildflowers as a final parting gift. She will be bathed in milk and honey, her ears and neck strung with pearls, her long dark hair released from its braids and brushed until it lies straight and shining, covered with a gauzy veil. Already she has fasted for two and a half days, and by the time she walks down the aisle she will not have eaten for three days, soft and pliant in her new husband’s arms. 

And if she weeps as they dress her in her finery, and if her sisters are silent as they weave her crown, their own eyes damp and red-rimmed, is that not only fitting? For a Sealing is a solemn thing, a bond broken by no man and lasting into eternity, and the hearts of young women, Bellamy knows, are given naturally to fear and foolishness.

 _You don’t wait for the rose to wilt before you pick it_ , Cadogan says. _Just as the flowers of the field are cut and gathered when they are still in bud, so it is with women. For is their beauty not intended to be a blessing upon righteous men, and what man desires a fading flower?_

After the Sealing, Octavia will wear the soft-green of the newly-wed women, a light spring shade that will turn her olive skin sallow and dull, bring out the shadows beneath her eyes. When her husband’s seed catches within her - as it will, eventually, as it must - she will swap her dress again for one of cornflower blue to mark her proven fertility, and her husband will smile as he accepts congratulations from the other men, their handshakes and knowing looks. Long decades hence, when the Lord finally sees fit to close her womb, she will take the light grey colour of the elder women, and help to raise the children of the Garden. And then, finally, when her husband dies, she will go to live in the home that the widows share at the edge of the compound, living in peace and quiet contemplation, so that death might be kept in its proper place, separate from life. 

Bellamy should rejoice. All Brethren are pledged to serve the Lord, to walk the path that He in His wisdom has set before them, the seasons of life that he has ordained, each in perfect order. There is nothing between him and the stranger before him, nothing meaningful about being born from the same woman, an earthly relationship that could only ever be a distraction from the Lord. The cleaving of false family bonds is the first of Cadogan’s commandments, and the most important. Bellamy is no longer the little boy who comforted his sister when she had nightmares, who let her pick all the marshmallows from his cereal, who made shadow-puppets of his hands to make her laugh. He is a man of faith, and if he feels anything towards Octavia at all, it is only pity, and the same selfless love he feels for all those who do not believe. 

But how then to explain what he feels when he sees her, a sharp tug in his chest, the same pain as he imagines a fish might feel, resisting the line that draws them in? How is it that he can sense her wherever he goes, a preternatural awareness at the edge of his mind, orienting towards her like a compass needle pointing due North? Why does he still feel this sinful urge to gather her to him, to keep her close and by him always, as if the flimsy promise of his protection could ever mean anything, set against the enduring might of the Almighty? 

Why does he make sure that her name is never entered into the pool of young girls that are called upon to serve Cadogan and the Covenent Level Tens at Sinai? Why, when her future hung on the flip of a coin, a choice between two equally pious men, did he nudge Cadogan to match her with Levitt, an unremarkable man, notable only for his gentleness and easygoing nature?

Why is it that the thought of her wearing blue makes him want to slam his fist into the wall?

“Bellamy. Big brother,” she says, her voice so soft that he has to strain his ears to make out the words, despite the silence that stretches between them. Distantly, through the raging turmoil of his thoughts, he wonders at the thoroughness of her training, that she doesn’t raise her voice even slightly, no trace of her obvious agitation apparent in her words. “Please.”

He knows how to do this. He has spent more nights than he can count or remember on his knees on the hard floor, whispering prayers until his throat ached, until the marks of the wooden boards stood out red and raw on his skin. In return, the Lord has showed him endless signs of His grace, His forgiveness. Bellamy is the youngest Covenant Level Six in decades, a trusted member of Cadogan’s inner circle, admired and envied by his peers. Already there are whispers, quiet now but growing steadily louder, that he is being groomed as Cadogan’s successor. 

And yet, when he reaches now for the sure knowledge of his salvation, the strength that has seen him through so many harder trials than this, there is nothing there. Just his fingers, closing around empty air in the darkness. Just desire, too long denied, the siren call of flesh to flesh, his blood singing in his veins. 

“Please,” he says, echoing Octavia’s words, but where her voice was calm, his is hoarse, desperate, humiliating. Not the voice of a man standing fast in his belief, but the pleading of a sinner, standing before both his judge and executioner. “What do you want from me?”

“Look at me,” she whispers. She is close now, too close, but he does not pull away. “Touch me.”

His mouth is dry as she reaches up behind her head and undoes her hair, letting it fall around her face. Bellamy cannot remember the last time he saw a woman’s hair unbound; the virgin girls wear their hair in tight plaits, wound through with white ribbons on holy days, and the married women cover their heads in scarves of undyed linen, saving their beauty for their husband’s eyes and pleasure alone. 

He should shield his eyes to save both their shame, yet somehow he finds that he cannot look away. 

Loose, Octavia’s hair falls almost to her waist, tumbling in soft waves. Dark and glossy, it almost seems to glow in the soft light of the lamp, and he sees why they call it a woman’s glory, shining like a crown with strands picked out in gold and bronze. Slowly - everything she does is slow, and he realises now that she is scared of startling him, handling him like she would a frightened horse - she reaches for his hands, cradling them briefly in her own before she lifts them to her hair. 

Breath catching in his lungs, he buries his hands in the gentle fall of her hair, the softest thing he has ever felt. His fingers tangle in the silken waves, and immediately he sees his mistake - knows himself trapped, as neatly caught as a wild animal in a net, being dragged into some dark and unknowable deep. He cradles her head in his hands, cupping the fragile curve of her skull, and she hums with pleasure, tipping her head back into his hold, eyes fluttering closed. He runs his thumb along the line of her cheekbone, and she follows the touch blindly, turning to press a kiss to his wrist, lips against the vein. The creature in his belly rears up, sending out sparks that set his blood aflame, and he feels himself hardening, desire thrumming through his body. 

Oh, but she is a wicked thing. 

_For the lips of an immoral woman drip as a honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil.  
_

Lost in his own thoughts, the quickening of his lust, he doesn’t notice that he is pulling her closer to him, his hands closing to tight fists in her hair. She gasps when he tugs her up onto her tiptoes, her palms coming up to brace herself against his chest as she stumbles into him, and it that sound - that soft inhalation, with its glass-sharp edge of pain - that finally breaks his trance, pushes him to lean down and put his mouth to hers.

The creature, which he knows now is the demon named desire, bares its teeth and leaps. 

It is not a graceful kiss. The first for them both, what was once a source of pride now only cause for frustration, raw need hampered by the clumsiness of inexperience. Frantic, their mouths crash together, and he pulls her tightly against him, hands leaving her hair to wrap around her waist, swallowing down a growl at how easily he encircles it with both hands. Her mouth is sweet, and familiar in a way that he cannot name but his body recognises, thrilling at the taste. 

Pain flares, and suddenly Octavia is pulling away, pushing him back. Lifting a hand to his mouth, he lowers it to find his fingers wet with blood. 

She bit him. 

White teeth flash as she smiles at him, and he, panting and insane, wants nothing more than to reach out to her, drag her back against him, but she is already lifting the hem of her dress, drawing it swiftly over her head and letting it fall to the floor. 

There is no room for indulgence in the Brethren. All they have is shared, including food, and Cadogan has a particular distaste for gluttony, nothing but disdain for those who cannot control their appetites. The women here are slim - sometimes, Bellamy thinks privately, too slim, that their portions could be increased a little without losing control entirely - and some of them wear it less well than others, their faces drawn and pinched. Octavia is not one of those women. She is slender, not a spare inch of fat on her, and yet nothing is left wanting, all perfectly formed by the careful hand of their creator. Her breasts, though small, are high and pert, with rose-tipped nipples drawn tight in the cold air, goosebumps prickling across the delicate skin. The lines of her legs are long and graceful, her hip a subtle curve, so that he imagines cupping it in his hand, watching it swallowed up by his broad palm. 

For all her brazenness, she shifts uncomfortably as he looks at her, hands twitching at her sides as though she longs to cover herself, and his gaze falls to the dark hair between her legs, the wetness he can see shining on her thighs.

He waits for the shame, for the tight knot of guilt that he feels whenever he catches himself imagining such things, when he wakes in the middle of the night hard and shaking with lust, shadowy images of entwined bodies slowly fading from his mind. But there is no guilt, no shame, none of the remorse that usually drives him to his knees begging for forgiveness. Only the triumphant singing of his blood, a surge of possessiveness so strong that he almost feels drunk on it, a sense of rightness that puts all his faith to shame, a pitiful, flimsy thing. 

And now the thin veneer of humanity is cracked, and the true nature of the animal within revealed. 

_And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of man.  
_

She is light in his arms when he lifts her, so tiny when he lies her in his bed that he fears he might crush her with his body, taking his weight up onto his trembling arms to keep himself above her. The mattress is thin, and creaks when he shifts position, the springs digging into his kness, but he barely feels it, having her so near and so near to having her. Carefully he lowers his head to take her nipple into his mouth, and she cries out, hips bucking and hands tanging in his hair as he suckles her, feeling the chilled flesh warm in his mouth. 

Bellamy has always carefully kept his thoughts away from what might take place in the marriage bed, too scared of what it might set free, the demons that it might unleash. He is just as much virgin as her - yet for all his innocence there is no awkwardness, finding himself predicting each reaction of her body as if it was his own, the joining of their bodies just an afterthought to the joining of their souls. He swirls his tongue around her nipple and her fingers tighten in his hair; he hums and she gasps at the soft vibration on her flesh; he bares his teeth, and sets the edge of them to vulnerable flesh, and her whole body quivers, as though it might break apart. 

He shifts his weight to one arm, raising his free hand to cup her other breast, and Octavia’s head tips back on the pillow, throat working as he twists the nipple gently between thumb and forefinger. When he lifts himself up to kiss her, she responds with a furiosity that startles both of them, her nails digging painfully into his scalp as he coninues to work her nipple with his hand. 

“Look at me,” Bellamy breathes, and once again he is echoing her words back to her, only this time it is Octavia that is undone, staring up at him with glassy eyes as he lets his hand trail down between her legs, tracing a straight path from the dip of her navel to her cunt. He groans as he feels how wet she is, a silky wetness like nothing he could have imagined, and he runs a finger down where she is hot and open for him, watching her mouth fall open on a silent cry. 

“Shh,” he soothes her, pressing his forehead to hers, feeling how she trembles as he works her, dipping the tip of his finger inside where she’s wettest before moving upwards to circle the hard bud that he knows is the centre of her pleasure. Her fingers clutch spasmodically at his hair, his shoulders, the sheets, and he shushes her again, his voice low and smooth. “Shh, it’s okay.”

He could weep, for how cruel he has been to her all these years, his hubris in thinking that he knew best, was protecting them both from the power of this thing between them. Poor girl, needing him so much, desperate for the care that only he can provide, and he keeping this distance between us for all this time, thinking it a kindness. Abandoning her, his blood, to seek a satisfaction in God that he now sees only he can provide. 

“Be calm,” he says as he pushes two fingers inside her, feeling how tight she is, how her body clutches at him, as desperate as his to be joined together. Slowly he withdraws his fingers, circling the sensitive flesh of her opening before thrusting them back in, hard, and her whole body shudders, a whine falling from her mouth. “I’m here now.”

It’s only reluctantly that he pulls away from her, his heart breaking at her pitiful sound of disappointment as he stands, taking off his shirt and throwing it across the cabin, not caring to see where it lands. He is not proud of how quickly he moves, how he fumbles as he undoes the drawstring on his trousers, tugs them down around his hips and kicks them off. 

Her eyes widen as she looks at him, at his hard cock jutting out between them. He senses the fear in her, the hesitancy, but something else too - curiosity, the desire to know his body as intimately as she knows her own. Gently he takes her hand and guides her to touch him, showing her how to wrap her fingers around the hard shaft and stroke him, both of them learning together how he likes to be touched, the first time he has been pleasured by any hand other than his own. He bites his lip at the sight of it, the obscenity of her small fingers struggling to reach around him, and his hips jerk when she twists her hand experimentally, looking up timidly to see his reaction. He is leaking, almost as wet as she is, and he groans as she puts a finger to the head of his cock and then to her tongue, tasting him. He has heard stories before, from some of the older, less discreet men, lewd tales of dishonourable women sinking to their knees before their lovers, and his fists clench at his sides as he imagines it, Octavia’s mouth stretched wide to take him in, her worshipful eyes raised to his. 

He can’t bear it. Needs to be inside her now, before he comes entirely undone. 

Gently he topples her back onto the mattress, lowers himself onto her. She is so small beneath him, almost disappearing beneath his bulk, yet somehow their bodies slot naturally together, her legs coming up to make a cradle for his hips as she lifts her head for a kiss. He is shaking now, desperate with the need to be inside her, but when their mouths meet the kiss is surprisingly gentle, an almost lazy caress of lips and tongue that calms as much as it arouses, steadying his frayed and frenzied nerves. Breathing her in, he takes his cock in hand, stroking once to coat himself in slippery wetness before he pushes inside her. 

Bellamy goes as slowly as he can, gritting his teeth against the mindless need that threatens to overwhelm him, the urge to simply take her and the gift that she offers so freely. Once again he presses his forehead to hers, watching as her eyes close, dark lashes fanning against pale skin. She is too small, or he is too big, or perhaps it is a perfect fit, because by the time he fully seats himself within her she is crying silently, the pillow next to her head wet with tears. Her hands are limp against his shoulders; only her legs are still tight around him, slender ankles locked at the small of his back, keeping him within her.

_Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh.  
_

Octavia’s mouth is lax as he kisses her; as he starts, slowly, unsteadily, to move within her. Patient, he coaxes her into the kiss, teasing her trembling lips with his until she responds, raising one large hand to cup her face, to trace the damp trail of her tears down her cheek. She shudders when he pulls out, the muscles of her cunt fluttering frantically, and he grits his teeth at how good she feels, hot and wet and clasping around him. He groans as he pushes back in, her virgin-tight flesh parting reluctantly around him, carving out a space for himself inside her that he knows will never be filled by anyone else. 

Gradually his movements gather pace, force, until the bed is rocking with each thrust, until he has no choice but to tear his mouth away from hers, head hanging low as he pants heavily, the urge to come already growing with him. Octavia whimpers faintly with each movement, her hips slowly learning his rhythm, rising to meet him, and when he finally lifts his head he sees that her head is tipped back against the pillow, her back arched in one long graceful line of pleasure. He thinks distantly that he should be touching her, should be reaching down to make sure that his sister is feeling the same satisfaction as he is, but it is all he can do to handle the feeling of her body around him, sensation so exquisite and intense that he threatens to shatter with it. 

Bellamy shouts as he comes, every atom in his body lit up with a kind of ecstasy that he has only glimpsed before in prayer, those singular and rare moments when he feels the light of the Lord fall upon him, brought into perfect and complete communion with the universe. He reaches down and pulls Octavia’s hips up tightly against him, sheathing himself to the root as his seed spills within her, and she cries out in response, a single sharp note that tears through the night, resonates with the triumphant singing of his blood until he shivers, pleasure heightened almost past bearing. 

He slumps, his body collapsing onto her, and all is glorious blankness until he suddenly realises his mistake, eyes snapping open. His body is heavy as lead as he clumsily pulls himself out of her, hissing at the sensation on his sensitive flesh, the muscles of his arms quivering, threatening to give out completely. The mattress is narrow, barely large enough for him alone, but he manages to curl himself awkwardly around her before he collapses again, his head pillowed on her shoulder as she lies still on her back, her eyes closed. He puts his hand on her chest, feeling it rise and fall with each ragged breath, her skin damp with sweat and exertion. 

A peace such he has never known slowly fills him, suffusing his entire body with calm, an entirely new kind of stillness. It goes far beyond physical satiation - although as he lies there he can feel his exhaustion growing, a gentle wave lapping at muscles and weary limbs, his eyelids slowly closing - to a soul-deep satisfaction, some deep and secret part of him finally content to have his sister so near, his body close and curled around her. He exhales, and beneath his palm he feels the steady drum of her heartbeat, in perfect time with his own. 

_For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._

He closes his eyes, and maybe he sleeps or maybe he doesn’t, but when he opens them again she is staring at him, her expression soft. He smiles. Her hair is tangled and wild, sticking to her damp skin, and he reaches up to gently brush it off her forehead, tucking the loose strands behind her ear.

“How do you feel?” he says, voice hoarse and cracking.

“Good,” she says, and ducks her head to touch her mouth to his. Less a kiss than a comfort, somehow, the silent reassurance of skin to skin, something passing between them that goes beyond words. “Tired.”

They lie like that for a while, tucked into each other, until he notices her shivering, goosebumps rising along her slender arm. Some combination of the cold in the cabin, and shock most likely, the flat plane of her stomach quivering, still beaded with sweat. He kisses her again until she calms, her body relaxing against him, and then sits up. 

“Here.” He reaches for the blanket, crumpled at the end of the bed with the rest of the bedclothes, then stands to shake it out, spreading it over her. She curls up beneath it gratefully, drawing her knees up to her chest, but not before he sees a quick flash of her feet, the soles black with dirt from her walk here, barefoot in the dark night. He lays a hand over her feet through the blanket, squeezing gently, and she curls her toes against his palm in response.

There is very little by way of furniture in the cabin - a bed, table and one chair, and a small makeshift bathroom in the far corner, just a battered wooden dresser and a metal basin for a sink, a towel hanging from a nail in the wall beside it. No running water of course, but a jug of water drawn from the communal tap earlier this evening, and a sliver of soap, so thin that it is almost translucent when held up to the light. Drawing on his trousers, he fetches what he needs, and then kneels by the bed. 

“Come here,” he says quietly, motioning for Octavia to sit up. She does so slowly, drawing in a breath as she sees the basin on the floor, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to the floor. She pulls the blanket up around her shoulders like a cloak, holding the ends together over her chest, and before she draws it closed he catches a glimpse of her breasts, the shadow of the divine place between her legs, and feels his cock twitch with interest.

Ah, so the hunger is not gone then. Only sated - and only momentarily so, the beast within him already stirring, slow heat gathering.

He fills the basin with water, adding some hot water from the thermos flask next to his bed until it’s just above room temperature, the tepid water feeling almost balmy in the cold room when he tests it with a finger. She sighs when he lifts her feet into the basin, unfurling her toes and wrigging them in the water, grinning when he looks up at her. He’s never seen her smile like that, so free and unrestrained, and something painful twists in his chest as he lowers his head, setting to his self-appointed task. 

Slowly Bellamy bathes Octavia’s feet, lathering the soap between his palms before washing the dirt from her soles. She is delicate here as she is everywhere, and he allows himself the indulgence of testing the circumference of her ankles, easily encircling them with a thumb and finger, feeling the fragile bones just under the skin. It’s quiet as he works, no noise but the splashing of the water and the tune that he hums under his breath, some song half-remembered from their shared childhood, the words long since lost. Something about this feels intimate, even more so than what they have just done together, and when he looks up again she is watching him silently, her dark eyes intent on his face. He runs a finger along the sole of a foot, and she jerks her foot away, water splashing onto the floorboards, her soft giggle breaking the silence. 

_If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another's feet._

He dries her feet carefully when he’s done, making sure to get in between her toes, ruing the roughness of the towel against her skin. 

“I - ” he begins, looking at the floor, and then falls silent. What can he say? What words are there, what apologies or pleas, that can make up for the distance between them, all the ways that he is only just beginning to realise he has failed his sister? He has always liked the clarity of faith - the certainty of sin and salvation, the sure knowledge of forgiveness from the Lord, His ways set down in black and white. Now he finds himself having wronged the girl in front of him, and the way forward uncertain, a crooked path shrouded in doubt and fear.

He leans down and places a kiss on the top of each of her feet. Action, at least, where words fail. 

Head still bowed, he hears her move, mattress springs creaking in warning a split-second before he feels her small hands on either side of his head, dragging him up for a frantic kiss. Her nails dig into the back of his neck as their lips meet, the flames already licking at their skin, and by the time she pulls apart both of them are breathing heavily, her mouth swollen and red. 

Deliberately, slowly, she lets go of the blanket and leans back onto her elbows, the dark woollen fabric pooling around her slender hips as he traces the lines of her body with slow-burning eyes. He reaches up to cup a breast, and she bites her lip, only for her mouth to fall open on a moan when he circles her areola with his thumb, bruised flesh still sensitive from the earlier attentions of his mouth. The muscles of her stomach twitch, her body neatly convulsing as he carefully twists and pulls at the erect nipple, letting go only when she whines, her fingers clenching to a fist in the bedsheets.

Holding her gaze, he sits up on his knees and slowly parts her thighs, ignoring the burning of her cheeks as she blushes furiously, his grip gentle but firm, keeping her knees apart when she tries to close them again. It’s only when he finally looks away, letting his gaze drop between her legs, that his hold on her fumbles and he sharply inhales at the sight of her thighs streaked with blood. 

Ignoring the towel, he reaches now for his discarded shirt on the floor next to him, the linen so well-worn that it is almost as soft as her skin. He dips it into the clean warm water of the thermos, and gently bathes her thighs until they are free of blood, shining wetly in the dim light of the lamp. 

She is trembling again, he notes, but maybe - this time - it is not from the cold. 

Carefully, he parts the lips of her cunt, watching the slow seep of his seed from her. He groans at the sight, and she falls back onto the mattress, shaking limbs finally giving way as he leans down and fits his mouth to her cunt. He groans again at the taste of them mixed together, the faint iron tang of blood, and perhaps it is not so much a groan as a growl, the animal in him revelling in the proof of their joining, what has been done and can never be undone. She gasps as he pushes his tongue inside her, seeking out more of the taste, and reaches up to rub the hard nub of her clit in slow, even circles. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, just the touch of his hand enough to make him moan brokenly into her cunt, devouring her even more ravenously. 

It’s not long before she’s bucking underneath him, her ankles drumming against his back, and then her thighs tighten around his head as she peaks, her body stiffening. In one swift motion he draws himself up onto his knees and pushes himself inside her, feeling her cunt pulse around him. Her eyes widen as he thrusts, hilting himself in one stroke, and he just manages to get his hand over her mouth before she’s screaming into his palm, coming again. The clutch of her body tips him over the edge, and then he’s coming too, taking his hand off her mouth to kiss her, swallowing her moans and gasps like prayers. 

Everything is a blur after that, Bellamy using the last of his energy to tuck them both into the bed, curling himself around her once more before they fall asleep. 

Bellamy has always feared the night. Not for what it holds, he can admit now, but for what he holds within himself - the doubts and fears that dwell in the shadows of his soul, his mind wandering down dark paths that even the light of the Word cannot illuminate. Never before has he prayed for the dawn not to come. But when he wakes to the first weak rays of the early morning sun, his sister’s skin pale in the light of the newborn day, his heart sinks, and he cannot help but pray for just a few more hours of darkness. He tightens his arms around Octavia where she is curled against him, and she stirs in response, her hand flexing against his chest before she settles back into sleep.

He kisses her awake, feeling her mouth curve into a smile beneath his lips. Pulling away, he watches her smile slowly fade, replaced by an expression that he knows must mirror the misery in his own face, her mouth opening on a shaky inhale as though it is a struggle to breathe. He puts his lips to her forehead and holds them there in a kiss, to spare himself the sight of her tears.

There is no time, and yet they both move slowly as they dress. Bellamy pulls a fresh shirt and trousers from his small store of clothing in the dresser, and then stands aside as Octavia rinses her face with water from the jug, combing her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame it. His blood-stained shirt still lies on the floor next to the bed, the bright red mark of his sister’s virginity stark against the white fabric. 

He knows that he should burn it. He knows that he will not.

He checks outside the cabin for Camaels before he ushers his sister outside and watches her disappear among the trees.

Today his sister will shed her white linen dress for lace and silk, her dormitory sisters weaving her a crown of wildflowers as a bridal crown. She will be bathed in milk and honey, welcoming the heat of the water as it soothes her stiff muscles, biting her lip to hide the soreness between her legs. She has fasted for three days, weak with fatigue, but when she walks down the aisle her head will be held high, each movement graceful and controlled, meeting her new husband’s eyes with a steady gaze.

And if she weeps as they dress her in her finery, and her sisters notice the dark circles beneath her eyes, the bruises on her pale flesh, they will stay silent. For a Sealing is a solemn thing, a bond broken by no man and lasting into eternity, but who among them does not have their own secrets, and count them the worthwhile cost of freedom? And if the Covenant Level Six standing next to Cadogan stands stiffly, hands clenching at his sides as she shares her first kiss with her husband, is that not easily explained by nerves, his first time assisting with such a rite, and only a few will remember that he and the bride are related by blood. 

After the Sealing, Octavia will wear the soft green of the newly-wed, and Bellamy will ask Cadogan for a wife. When her husband’s seed catches with her - as it must have done, for who else’s could it be - she will swap her dress again for one of cornflower blue to mark her proven fertility, and her brother will put his fist through the wall of his cabin, showing up to morning service the next day with his knuckles broken and bruised. Some few months hence, the child will be born with a full head of dark curly hair, blood showing the truth of blood for those that only care to see it. And then, finally, one day the Cabraels will sound the alarm, the dawn light finding two empty beds and one empty crib, the compound gate open and swinging in the fresh morning air, the tire tracks of an old Toyota leading out into the wild world beyond. 


End file.
